The Forgotten
by hurricanelil11
Summary: "My name is Aster Stein; I have a mother working for the district government, a father who is the headmaster of the Victor's Academy, a brother named Aristus who won the Hunger Games six years ago, and I do NOT—according to the laws and record books of my district—have a sister named Victoria."
1. Morning at the Academy

**This is my third Hunger Games FanFiction story! In this one, I'm trying to write longer chapters with more details. I'll try to develop the characters more than in my last two stories. That means I'll also be very slow in updating, also because I have school.  
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**My story is set in District 2, which Suzanne Collins doesn't actually describe all that much in the series, so I took that as a chance to create my own idea of it. I tried to make the "Victor's Academy" like a typical, preppy, boarding school (with added combat training). I got inspiration from many different sources: The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins (of course), but also 1984, by George Orwell and Princess Academy, by Shannon Hale.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own ANY of the books I mentioned above-they belong to their authors. I do, however, own the characters (except for President Snow, Caesar Flickerman, and Claudius Templesmith) and the plot of my story.**

**The image is from ~asaph70 on DeviantArt.  
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**The Forgotten**

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My eyes open before dawn on this cold morning in early spring. It's already April, but there's always still frost on the ground at this time of year in District 2. We're so high in the mountains that it sometimes snows in midsummer, much to everyone's dismay. Judging by the weak sunlight coming through the window, it is almost six thirty in the morning—just in time for Ada's daily breakfast announcement. And sure enough, I hear a shuffling noise coming closer from across the room and feel a soft prod of my shoulder.

"Wake up, wake up. Breakfast, Aster!" whispers Ada's breathy voice. I give a grunt to show that I'd heard her, but don't move an inch. Ada then circulates the small room and greets our bunkmates Regina and Vikki in the same manner.

She has done this every morning for the ten years we have all roomed together at the Victor's Academy.

The first time Ada woke me up I was surprised and kind of flattered. We were eight years old, and it was the first morning at the Academy. I never had many childhood friends—I guess because I keep to myself a lot—and I felt accepted when Ada talked to me like I was already her best friend. Then she did it again the next morning. And the next. After about a week of this I was ready to throw off my blanket and sheets, look her square in the eyes, and yell, "Enough, Ada! I know it's breakfast time!" But obviously, I never did. Now I barely notice her morning ritual.

It is time for breakfast, though. I shove my bedcovers to the side and slide my feet into my slippers. Regina and Vikki are also waking up. It's funny—I would never really call any of my bunkmates my friends—but they are the closest people that come to it. When we entered the Academy—which is technically named the District 2 Academy for the Training and Education of Future Victors of the Annual Hunger Games, but usually just called "Victor's Academy," or "the Academy"—as eight-year-olds, everyone was randomly assigned three other children to room with. Regina and Vikki were coincidently already best friends, and Ada was, well, she was herself, a friend to everybody. We've all been living together for ten years now, and the three of them are probably the only people I'm completely comfortable around.

But again, I'm hesitant to call them real friends, because outside of our shared room, or any of the classes we share at school, I don't really hang out with them. Regina and Vikki are inseparable from each other, as well as a large clique of other girls. Ada has a twin sister who sleeps in another bunk. I don't go out of my way to talk to any of them, and they basically leave me alone. But I'm happy with that arrangement—it comes so naturally.

Regina sits up in her bed and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. "Wow," she says, "this will be our last breakfast together in the dining hall."

"Uh huh," I agree. It's true—today is our last normal day at Victor's Academy. The system concerning Career training in District 2 is pretty simple. There are two basic social classes—the lower class, the Quarryworkers, who work in stone quarries and provide District 2's main export, and the upper class, the Victors, who are winners or family members of winners of the Hunger Games. At the age of eight, all Victor children get sent off to the Academy for training. We stay for ten years until we're eighteen. Then, the day before the reapings, we take an exam to determine the most skilled out of all of us. Whoever scores highest on the test must volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games. Tomorrow is the day of the Exam, so today is the final regular day any of the eighteens will ever have.

My bunkmates and I file into the hallway towards the bathroom to get ready for the day. Other girls from rooms across the hall are already up, so we get in line. It inches forwards slowly, as the bathroom only accommodates one girl at a time.

"I just realized," laughs Regina, "this will be the last time I will ever have to yell at Vikki to hurry up in there so I can get a turn. So, hurry up!" I chuckle at this remark—Vikki does take a long time in the bathroom, but Regina often takes even longer.

"Hey," calls Vikki from the other side of the door, "I can hear you in here!"

I do hope Vikki hurries up, though; I'm freezing standing here in the stone-floored hallway in nothing but a nightgown and slippers. The amazing thing about the Academy is its architecture. It was built entirely inside of a mountain. I'm serious—the mountain was literally hollowed out into rooms, corridors, and gyms until a whole building was made. It's completely invisible from the outside except for the large, wooden main doors, and lots of tiny windows that dot the mountain face.

Finally, Regina, who was in line directly ahead of me, steps out of the bathroom. "Your turn, Aster," she says. I wash up and dress in a simple tunic, thick leggings, work boots, and a sweater—Academy uniform. At breakfast, Professor Saxum announces that the Final Exam will be held tomorrow. As if we don't know already—they've been drilling it into our heads for ten years straight. I grew up listening to stuff like, "Why are you sitting down? Any free time means points lost on the Exam," (this was my trainer, Basia) and, "If you don't do well on the Exam, I might have to disown you," (this was Ari, my older brother).

Professor Saxum tells us to look at a large sheet posted on the opposite wall. Obviously, not everyone can take the Exam at the same time, so we've all been assigned times to be tested. All the students jump up at once and rush over trying to see if they got a good time, or a bad one like five o'clock in the morning. I sit tight in my seat, though, not wanting to be caught in the commotion. Also, I figure they're organizing us by last name, so having the last name Stein, I'm probably scheduled for the late afternoon, early evening. Once the disorder has calmed down a bit, I quickly scoot over to the schedule and find that I was right—my time is six thirty in the evening.

After breakfast, it is time for the morning workout. I find myself thinking like Regina—this will be my last morning workout in the weight room ever. This is probably my favorite time of the day; I don't have to talk with anyone except to say something like, "Can I borrow that 20-pound dumbbell for a few minutes?" I just get to relax for two hours lifting weights or doing other exercises. The weight room is a large, cavernous space near the bottom of the Academy. The legend was that the floor was actually built a couple feet higher, but the sheer weight of all the weights stored there dragged it down, which is why the ceiling is so high now. I highly doubt there's any truth in it, though. It was probably something one of the eighteens from decades ago made up to trick the younger students.

I settle into the leg-press contraption. It's basically a reclining seat with a heavy weight that slides perpendicularly, which you put your feet on and bend and straighten your knees, lifting the weight with your legs. After a while, it gets so rhythmic that I can zone out for hours. Right now, I'm thinking about my family.

I have a mother working for the district government, a father who is the headmaster of the Victor's Academy, a brother named Aristus who won the Hunger Games six years ago, and I do _not_—according to the laws and record books of my district—have a sister named Victoria.

There is no such person named Victoria Stein who lives, or ever lived, in District 2. Well, there probably is, it's a common name, but not _my_ Victoria. I'm not ever sure how to talk about her due to the fact that there is no verb tense to describe her state of being, I mean, non-being. Usually, I use past tense, the tense that is used for dead people. But she's not dead, according to any records. She's not dead because she was never alive.

It's probably dangerous to be thinking this right now, but if I don't actually say any of it aloud, no one can know that I'm thinking it. The truth is, my older sister, Victoria, volunteered for the Hunger Games ten years ago and lost. She died in the Games, and it's District 2's policy to regard any loser of the Games as never having existed. Anyone who dies is a disgrace to the rest of the District. A scratch on our perfect record. If every real person who volunteers ends up winning, District 2 has a one hundred percent winning history.

Another thing I shouldn't be thinking about is the Census. Every year, the District 2 Census is taken to count the population and take demographic data. Every year, it says basically the same thing, give or take a few digits or tenths of a percent: Population—1,078, Number of Victors—33, Victor per Citizen Percentage—3.06%, Tribute to Victor Ratio—1/1, and other lies like that. Well actually, the number of Victors is true; District 2 has won approximately half the Hunger Games since they were created. This year's Games are the 71st. Anyway, most of the statistics the Census collects are complete and utter lies—broadcasted to the upper class to promote patriotism and support or something. But most of know what goes on behind the scenes because our relatives work in the district government.

First of all, "population—1,078" is a severely low number in comparison with the actual number of inhabitants of the district. 1,078 is the number of people in the Victor class, the only legal citizens of District 2. But there is a multitude of other people the Census doesn't count—the Quarryworkers. According to District 2 law, they are not real people, just like Victoria and all the other tributes who don't win the Games. They don't exist, have never existed, and will never exist—yet they supply the entire country of Panem with stone products. Victoria had told me, a long time ago, that she believes their population to be about eight times ours, judging by the amount of stone they bring in every year and the number of children that show up for the reapings. "Enough to overthrow us by number easily," she had said, "but I don't think they even want to."

That's because we basically leave them alone. They are not citizens, therefore the government doesn't pay attention to them as long as they are meeting their quotas for stone production. Also, they never have to fight in the Hunger Games. Every year, since the Quarryworker children make up so much more of the population, one of their names is selected. But every year, both tributes are members of the Victor class, because we have to volunteer. We treat them like slaves, like animals, yet they've never tried to rebel because they get to live their own lives without the stress of having to train for the Hunger Games. Sometimes I almost wish I was a Quarryworker….

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**Hope you like it so far! Review please, and check out my other stories, It Could Have Been Me and The Weapon Against Us.**


	2. Last Lunch

"Aster!" A voice yells at me, waking me from my daydream. "You've been on that thing for half an hour; it's my turn now."

"Sorry," I mumble, and I prop up the weight before moving my legs aside and standing up. After working out my leg muscles for so long, they feel kind of weak. I decide to do push-ups for a while to strengthen my arms and stomach. Any free time means points lost on tomorrow's Exam.

School is as boring as ever. From nine o'clock to one thirty, we must go to classes to learn basic math, science, language, and history. The math has gotten slightly more advanced over the years—from basic addition and subtraction when we were eight, to solving for variables this year—but we learn the same stuff over and over again in all the other classes. Science is mainly related to rocks and minerals, because that's District 2's export. Language is just grammar and translations of ancient texts that were once written in a language called Latin.

History is a whole other thing, though. As well as learning the history of Panem, which is required knowledge for all students across the country, we have a unit each year on the history of the Victor's Academy. It was actually pretty interesting—the first out of the ten times I've learned it.

District 2 Academy for the Training and Education of Future Victors of the Annual Hunger Games was founded after the 10th Games by the Victor from District 2, Victorius Slate. He believed that the children of privileged citizens deserved a leg up in the Hunger Games because of their status. Training before the Games is technically illegal, but Victorius Slate got away with it probably because he had connections and a reputation in the Capitol.

The thing about Victorius Slate, though, is that he's kind of been deified. No one is really sure is he was a real person, and if that was really his name. He is worshipped with holidays, pledges, and songs, and many first-born children are named after him. There is an abundance of Victors, Vicks, Vickys, Vikkis, Victorys, Torys, and Victorias here in District 2. Either way, he was allegedly the founder and first headmaster of the Academy and a very important figure in history class.

We get a day off on his birthday, March 28th, which is called Victor's Day because the accomplishments of Victorius Slate, as well as all the other Victors, are celebrated with feasts and parties. School is off on two other days as well: President's Day, September 21st, which is a celebration of President Snow's birthday, and Panem Day, November 15th, which is the day when the rebels finally fell to the Capitol. Also, even though the Academy is basically a boarding school, we all get to visit home and stay with our families for one week during each season.

Finally, the last bell rings, and all the eighteens rush out of the classroom—that was our last class ever! I know I should at least be slightly apprehensive about the Exam, but I can't help but feel happy. It's fun being an eighteen and knowing that I will never have to spend another day at school. I love how the younger students look up to us in awe, and how the seventeens give us jealous, sideways glances. On the way to the dining hall, where all meals are held, I pass Regina and Vikki and their group of friends.

"I don't know why," I hear Regina saying, "but I have a good feeling about the Final Exam. I think I can do pretty well."

"Of course you will," replies Vikki, "didn't you win the weekly knife-throwing contest like five times?"

Regina laughs. "Yeah, and last week I was recovering from the flu!"

"No fair!" pipes up Regina's fifteen-year-old sister, Clove, "I want to go to the Hunger Games, too."

"Don't worry, little Clovie," answers Regina, ruffling her sister's hair, "I'm sure you'll get your chance three years from now."

Regina has always been absolutely positive that she will win the Exam. She's been mentioning it since we were little. She probably is the most qualified out of all of our bunkmates. Regina can throw a knife farther than any other eighteen with such accuracy that she once killed a fly landed on a tree over twenty meters away. She's also fearless. Vikki is very average—she's skilled, but she doesn't do anything to stand out, other than be Regina's best friend. And Ada is just not cut out for fighting or anything athletic. She's tiny and delicate and can barely lift her bow and arrows, which is her specialty weapon.

In the dining hall, I sit at my normal table—inconspicuous and in a corner. Regina, Vikki, and their clique take up most of the largest center table. Ada sits with her twin sister. They're identical—both with short, fluffy, blonde hair and breathy voices—but by living with Ada for ten years, I can tell them apart.

"Hi," says a voice, and a boy with sandy-blonde hair and deep blue eyes sits down opposite me. This is August; his name is short for Augustus, but he doesn't like the extra "us" at the end.

"Hi," I say back. Our usual greeting.

August and I always sit together at lunchtimes, and I remember precisely the first time we did. It was on December 22nd when we were sixteens. I knew who he was, because the Academy is fairly small, and he was in most of my classes, as was everybody else, but we had never really talked. So on that day, I was eating alone at my table, which I had always done, when August sat down across from me and said, "Hi," like he did today. Then he proceeded to not look at me for the entire half-hour of lunch. When the bell rang, he stood up, said, "Bye," and left.

The next day he did the same thing. And the next.

After a while, we started actually talking to each other, but a lot of the time we are just silent, and it doesn't matter because, like me, I don't think he's a big talker.

With five minutes left in lunch, I suddenly feel a pang in my chest. "This is our last ever lunch!" I exclaim to August.

"Yeah," he agrees, quietly, and I'm shocked to hear such sadness in his voice. I mean, I'm feeling nostalgic, but I'm also happy to be leaving the Academy after so long. I need a change in lifestyle. The bell rings, signaling the start of the afternoon workout—specialty training.

"Bye," I say to August.

"Bye," he replies.

But neither of my legs will move. I try to swing them over the bench seat, but I just can't. It seems as if two sides of my brain are having an argument. One side is telling my legs to get up and walk to the gym, where practice is held, but the other side is telling them to stay put because the last lunch should deserve a longer goodbye. It appears as if August is having the same problem, too, because he hasn't moved an inch. I look into his eyes and we laugh, noticing each other's dilemma. That seems as if it frees our legs and we're both able to stand up.

"Good luck on the Exam," August says and walks over to give me a hug.

"You too," I reply.

I hurry off to one of the many gyms in the Academy where I have my specialty training. From when we enter Victor's Academy until age thirteen, everyone does general training to get the basic skills in all weapons and to figure out which one we excel in. Then, in a large ceremony between our twelfth and thirteenth years, whatever weapon or fighting skill each of us had chosen to specialize in for the remainder of our time at the Academy was announced to the whole school as well as our families.

I chose the spear. I remember I had an extremely difficult time deciding this, though. I never really liked fighting in general—training was fun when we did weights, exercises, or running, but I dreaded the actual combat practice. After hours of considerations, pros and cons lists, and consulting my bunkmates, I was leaning towards hand-to-hand combat—the least of all the evils because it didn't actually involve a weapon.

But then when I told my family the night before the ceremony, they were appalled. My father, who is actually the current headmaster of the Academy, thought it was a weak choice. "You won't gain the necessary skills you need without learning a weapon, Aster!" he said, and then, "Imagine what everyone will think of me now—only one out of two children a Victor—I'll be dishonored!" From across the table, I saw my mother stiffen at the mention of "two children," but she didn't say anything. Even if the rest of District 2 didn't acknowledge Victoria as a person, I always knew my mother still did.

My older brother, Ari, told me, "You should try the spear. That's what I did, as you all know, and look where it got me! I won the Hunger Games, don't you want to be like me, little sis?" My father vigorously agreed with this suggestion, which set them off on a lively debate over the best type of spear. "The ideal length is exactly your height!" "That's so old fashioned! It should be at least ten centimeters taller than the thrower." They went on and on like this, and from being around them my whole life, I knew that the best thing was just to ignore them.

But when I arrived at the thirteens' ceremony the next day, and was walking across the stage, the director of specialty training read my assignment. "Aster Stein, specializing in…spear throwing." I was horrified—I had specifically decided on and written "hand-to-hand combat" next to my name on the submission sheet we all had to sign. This was definitely my father's doing. I could tell from the smug smile I saw on his face as I glanced towards his throne-like headmaster's chair in the audience. Ari, too, was clapping enthusiastically. There was nothing I could do—my father would make sure I stayed with the spear, because to switch now would be a dishonor to the family.

Almost as much of a disgrace as dying in the Hunger Games.


	3. Goodnights and Good Lucks

When I open the heavy, wooden door to the gym, I try to make as insignificant an entrance as possible. Unfortunately, that's not possible with a trainer like Basia.

"There she is! My little champion!" booms a large woman—Basia—as she strides over to me, making no less than twenty other people in the gym turn towards us. With Basia, everything is over the top. She doesn't walk—she strides. She doesn't yell—she bellows. If you told her to dress formally for an event, she would show up in an outrageous costume. Basia is also about two meters tall and as muscular as an ox. But I've learned to deal with her eccentricities after five years of training with her.

Basia puts an arm over my shoulders (making it hard to breathe) and herds me over to our usual training area. I'm her only student. Many trainers have multiple trainees—usually one from each age group—but not Basia. She gets to put all of her effort into making a great spear-thrower out of me. I suspect this is one of the perks of being the headmaster's daughter. Ari had a personal trainer, too.

"We're not going to do much today," says Basia. "Don't want to put too much stress on your muscles or brain. Just do some easy throws, and we'll call it quits slightly early."

I nod and walk over to the throwing range. There is a rack full of different sizes and types of spears, all worn out from years of use. The ends are pretty blunt and the grips are ragged. I pick my favorite—a heavy thing of 180 centimeters with a rubber grip and detachable spearhead. I bounce it around in my throwing hand for a few seconds, trying to get the right balance. Then I take a running start (it took me _years_ to get the footwork right) and hurl the spear as far as I can. It sticks in the turf floor of the range just past the thirty-meter mark.

Hearing the _thwok_ sound the spear made, Basia looks up and complements me. "Good, good!" she says, and then comments to another trainer standing next to her, "We all have high hopes Aster will score well on the Exam. Did you know, when she first started training with me she couldn't do anything but trip over her own feet!" She lets out a big guffaw at this, but continues, "And now look at her!" Her friend nods and agrees.

It's true; I was almost a hopeless case when I started specialty training. The first day I walked into the gym to start training, I was terrified and still angry at my father. I sulked into the gym along with all the other excited thirteens who had chosen spear throwing, and I was determined to fail horribly. We all made a circle in the center of the gym, and were introduced to the trainers. When it was time to get assigned, I heard a powerful voice say, "I want that one!"

My eyes were turned to the ground, so I didn't see Basia pointing at me until Vikki elbowed me, and, startled, I glanced up. "Me?" I squeaked.

"Yes, you!" Basia said enthusiastically to me, and then said to the other trainers, "I like the look of her—a very good build for spear throwing." So that was how Basia became to be my trainer. But for a very good portion on my first year learning the spear, she was very, very wrong about my skill level. I couldn't get the footwork correct, and if I performed it decently once, my arms would be out of sync. I was also too "afraid of my own strength," as Basia would say, and didn't break fifteen meters until everyone else was already at twenty. Often times, Basia would just make me sit out a practice and watch her throw. She may be heavy, but her feet are as quick as flash.

Sometimes, I would be so discouraged that I dreaded going to practice. But the thing about Basia is that she's so supportive—she makes everybody feel like a hero. "You have the best wrist flick I've ever seen," she'd say—completely ignoring the fact that I'd tripped over my own feet _again_.

Basia also told me stories of how she hadn't been picked to volunteer for the Hunger Games, because she was actually been very lazy as a child. She wouldn't come to practice no matter how much her trainer scolded her. In the end, even with all of her natural skill, she wasn't good enough to do well on the Exam. "That's why you'll do well," she always says to me. "You know the meaning of 'no free time.'"

Despite not having much talent at the beginning, Basia has really propelled me to the top of my age group. We just work well together. She enjoys giving almost impossible workouts, and I'll complete them with no complaints. Since we don't get to see our family except on holidays, Basia became like a second mother to me because of all the time we spent together. Eventually, Basia was right, I did become a really good spear thrower. Somewhere along the line, after many practices, something just "clicked" in me, and I finally understood completely Basia's advice and techniques on spear throwing. I surged forwards in skill, and soon surpassed all the other female spear throwers, and even some of the boys. I still don't love spear throwing, mainly because it wasn't even my choice, but Basia has made me great at it.

I take a few more throws, until Basia tells me to stop so I don't hurt my arm the day before the Exam. I jog a little bit around the track in the gym across the hall, and then it's already dinnertime. At breakfast and dinner we have to sit with our roommates (lunch is much more informal, and we don't have to, so that's why I can sit with August). Regina is literally bouncing up and down in her seat; she's so excited for the Exam. Vikki is sharing in her enthusiasm, as always. Ada is also eager and apprehensive, but looses interest in Regina's nonstop talking when food is served.

"When I go to the Capitol, I'm going get my unibrow fixed!" Regina is explaining. "They have all this technology that can just stop the hairs from ever growing back." She doesn't really have a unibrow—just slightly bushy eyebrows—but she's the type of person who is really self-conscious about her appearance.

"If you win," asks Vikki, "can you take me to the Capitol to visit?"

"Of course! That would be awesome," she says, and after a pause, she looks at me and Ada across the table and tells us, "You guys can come, too, if you want."

"Huh?" says Ada blankly as she looks up from the steak she has been busily sawing away at.

"Whatever," Regina says, brushing away her comment. "Anyway, I heard that you get your own stylist and makeup artists and everything in the Capitol!"

Vikki oohs in awe.

"I can't wait!" Regina is talking about going to the Capitol like she already won the Exam. Which she could very much do—but it's not a good thing to be too sure of yourself, no matter what the odds are.

After dinner and a special good luck speech to us eighteens, we file back to our rooms to get a good night's sleep before the Final Exam. Ada won't have to wake us up for breakfast because there is no designated wake-up time tomorrow. Since everyone takes the exam at different times of the day, you can wake up any time you like, as long as it's before your scheduled Exam time.

We change into our pajamas and exchange goodnights and good lucks.

"Gook luck, Regina. Good luck, Vikki. Good luck, Aster. Goodnight everybody," says Ada in her breathy voice. It was just so Ada-like for her to wish us all good luck personally.

"Good luck," says Regina to all of us, and we repeat her. I turn the light out and it's immediately pitch black in the room. Unlike all my other bunkmates, I feel apprehensive about the test. I know I can do well, maybe even score the highest and be chosen to volunteer. But do I really want to fight in the Hunger Games? That answer is a definite no. I know what happened to Victoria, and I don't like thinking about how she died. And if I refuse to volunteer, will my father disown me as a disgrace to his bloodline? That answer is a definite yes.

Finally, I'm able to fall asleep. But after what seems like only a few hours, I wake to a strange noise. It's still pitch black, the middle of the night, so I can't see any thing, but I do hear a distinctive sound. Someone is crying. They're trying to cover it up by using a pillow or something to muffle the sound, but it was loud enough to wake me up. Without sight, my sense of hearing has increased: the sobbing is coming from the bed directly opposite mine. It's Regina.

"Regina," I whisper, careful to not wake the others. The crying abruptly stops.

"What is it?" her strangled voice asks.

I almost ask if she's okay, but stop myself because I realize it's a stupid and unhelpful thing to say. Of course she's not okay—she's crying her eyes out!

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Regina," I plead. I'm so confused—just hours ago at dinner she was exhilarated. "I know there's something bothering you; I can tell. Maybe I can help."

There's a long pause from her end, and I begin to get afraid she's ignoring me. But then I hear an almost inaudible answer. "I'm scared."

So that's it. Talented, excited, Capitol-bound Regina is scared. "Don't worry," I answer. "If you know that you're scared about the Exam, you can guarantee that every other single girl is scared as well. It's a completely level playing field. Plus, you have an advantage because you can hide it."

She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she heard me. After a while, her sniffles get more and more irregular, until I can tell by her breathing pattern that she's asleep. I don't think I'll mention our conversation to the others in the morning—that wouldn't be fair to Regina.

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**Review? The next chapter will be about Victoria!**


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